


the first night of the summer of love

by ameriboo



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, F/M, Hippies, Prompt Fic, Romance, San Francisco, Strangers to Lovers, Yuppie, drew is a scholar and may is a flower child, they meet on a streetcar, warning: drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 08:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18807040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameriboo/pseuds/ameriboo
Summary: It was on a San Francisco streetcar that the girl speaks to the boy. It was the first time the boy never looked back.





	the first night of the summer of love

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i do not own anything. warnings: mention of drugs.
> 
> notes: my dear len gave me a prompt and i turned it into shit. i love making bad historical aus, sue me. also contestshipping really did invent love and you can quote me on that.
> 
> credit to user neveronneptune for the engineering student headcanon for drew. her mind? beyond this world.

 

> **"things you said on the streetcar at 1 am"**

_Summer, 1967_

_San Francisco, California_

He had two minutes till the next streetcar trailed up the hill on those electric wires.

Drew's thin, lanky frame made it easy for him to maneuver through the masses of Chinatown school children carrying their red bean cakes in their tiny sticky hands as they scurried towards Mandarin lessons.

Making it just in enough time, he stands by the bus stop beside the giggling grannies and their personal shopping carts.

When he was just a young boy, living on the outskirts of Portsmouth Square, Drew would also attend his Mandarin lessons. His mother started his days with porridge and traditional folk songs while his father ended his night with arithmetic and the Andy Griffith show. Drew's mother would tell him was 混血儿—a mixed-blood child. He would have dreams of red paint being mixed with green and blue and yellow till there was nothing but brown guck.

He was reminded of his guck blood when he moved into a historical white brownstone after his father got a new, higher paying job. At age twelve, no more living on top of lao lao's tea shop. From Chinatown to Nob Hill. It was white faces in a white neighborhood going to a white school.

And they didn't see his blood. They knew something was different, but it never felt off. He passed and his father was downright jovial about the fact as your mother poured more tea with a look of disappointment.

To her, his jade eyes reflected beauty and luck. But they also were his father's eyes that reminded her of how she let go of part of her past for his sake.

So out in the streets, Drew tries to speak his mother's native tongue. When he offers his seat to the older people or when he orders his own red bean treat, hoping that his mother hears on the other side of town, behind those white walls.

Drew heard the streetcar before he could see it, the sparks and rusted red metal making an urban melody. After a group of fruit cradling, older people got on, Drew paid his cents and headed towards an empty seat in the middle of the cart.

With his brown-leather satchel awkwardly held in his lap, he makes space for two grannies to sit on either side of him. Trying to ignore their "private" conversation happening over him, he looked around the cart for anything else to hold his attention.

He really didn't want to hear about the gossip about Lin down at the corner store; he also  _really_  wasn't trying to think about grad school applications or how he was probably going to be late to his internship at the California Academy of Science.

During his attempt at seeking a distraction, he found himself watching the chaos that was the back of the streetcar, with its rowdy high school students and yelling old men. There was only one figure not part of the madness.

Drew couldn't see much of the serene girl, her head slumped against the window with strands of curled chestnut hair covering part of her golden face. She wore a patterned blue silk scarf on top of her head—a pair of crimson heart-shaped sunglasses covering her eyes. He couldn't tell if she was sleeping or if she was watching the world outside the window. The girl seemed so far away.

She didn't look that different from the thousands of other vagabonds that came in and out of San Francisco. The flower children of the love generation that came to dump their pseudo—peace ideology on anyone with ears. Drew's father called them anti-American trash but Drew agreed with them on the anti-war sentiment and the importance of nature. He just failed to understand why a good number of them seemed to substitute peace and good vibes for good ol' fashioned soap.

For a moment, he wondered if the sleeping girl was with anyone or if she was on something but then came his stop. He raised himself out of his seat and carefully brought his satchel to his shoulder as avoided stepping on any toes on his way out.

Drew exited the streetcar with enough time to make it to his shift. Before taking a step forward, he turned back to the cart and saw a glimpse of the girl as the streetcar took her away before he could even blink. All he could catch was a flash of crimson and metal.

He watched the back of the cart, hands stuffed in his pockets, before turning around and heading towards his destination. At that moment, applications or his supervisor yelling at him didn't matter.

. . .

It was Friday night and he overstayed at the greenhouse again. His supervisor left hours ago, and Drew was doing his best attempt at documenting the growth of the array of succulents kept at varying temperatures. He majored in engineering but held a fondness for plants and greenery. The scent of his mother's herb garden one of his favorites. But succulents were different. He was always fascinated by their durability, but his fascination kept him out late once again.

It was already past midnight. Luckily, his parents were out of town visiting his father's family out in the Midwest, so he didn't have to concern himself with waking them up.

The bus stop was straight ahead and illuminated by a single street lamp. He crossed his arms as he walked under the light, feeling exposed to the night.  _Home_ , he thinks to himself.  _You'll be home soon._

The familiar sound of a streetcar pulling up puts part of Drew at ease. He dropped his coins, thanked the dazed conductor and stepped on to the dimly lit cart. There was only one other person onboard.

Her presence was enough to drive Drew to a halt.

Of all the streetcars in San Francisco, he found her once again with her head against the window. All the way in the back. Drew can tell it's her by those heart-shaped sunglasses perched on the top of her chestnut head. She wore a light brown frayed jacket over an ivory linen baby doll dress—embroidered with little red and blue roses.

And this time, her eyes are visible. Drew took his seat before could see the details of her face—curious but not enough to create an awkward situation for himself. It was strange that he found her again but maybe San Fran was smaller than he thought.

No one else on the streetcar but her, him, the conductor and that rickety shake of an uphill path. The streets filled with wandering souls, with and without homes, but they passed them all as they stayed within the little sanctuary.

Drew made a mental checklist for his day tomorrow to distract himself from thinking of the girl behind him. Where she was going, if she had a home or anyone to go home to. She couldn't have been any older than him.

He looked down at his hands, clenching his fingers as he grimaced at the dirt under his fingernails from digging in soil all day. With much effort, he tried not to look back.

"Hello."

Drew's eyes widened, his head snapping around to see her stand up with her hand on the stray suspended from the ceiling of the streetcar. The girl dangled on the browned plastic handle, twirling around as she tried to get his attention.

Drew froze just like their ride. He looked up at her.

Blue. She had blue eyes, still bright, even in the dark of night. Her eyelids were painted with gold. Her cheeks painted a burnt rosy mauve—with little stars and moons and suns drawled. Some of the little stars were smudged.

"…Hey?" He asked, blinking up at the girl.

Both hands held above her head, swinging on the straps as she smiled down at him. "Do you have a lighter?"

Drew quirked an eyebrow in confusion. He wasn't the type to carry around a lighter. "For what?"

She reached under her tousled mop of brown hair and pulled out a poorly rolled joint from above her ear. "For fun, man."

"Tch," Drew sucked in his breath, making a strange face. "Like you can smoke in here anyway."

The girl tilted her head to the side, looking confused. She pursed her cherry lips before calling out: "Dennis, scream at me if you care if we smoke weed in here!"

Drew moved to get a better view of the conductor, Dennis, do nothing but grunt in his chair.

"See, Dennis doesn't care."

Drew doubted that Dennis seemed to care about anything.

He reached deep into his satchel and pulled out a small box.

"I don't have a lighter—" He told her, trying not to burn under her sunshine expression. Drew shook the matchbox—the sound of the tiny sticks sliding up and down. "All I got is two or three matches."

Her expression lit up as the yellow light filtered throughout the cart, casting her in a strange dream-like glow. Drew almost couldn't believe he was experiencing this right now. His time at the University of San Francisco usually kept him familiar with strangers from all over the country fighting for their beliefs over clouds of dope smoke with the sounds of Grateful Dead playing throughout the campus. It was easy to avoid strangers and to keep to himself. He barely had more than three friends. Living at home and commuting to campus during the school year usually had his social range limited.

He wouldn't call this situation easy. A strange girl, her eyes big and dress flowy, taking up his attention. And he surprisingly wanted to give it to her.

If only he had a lighter.

"That works," she sang, taking the seat in front of him in a twirl. The girl hiked her legs up, twisting herself to look over the seat. She still seemed interested in talking to him. Or to steal away whatever little fire the academic could supply.

Drew suddenly felt self-conscious. He gripped the cardboard box in his hands.

"You don't want to share?" She asked, her chin propped on top of her hands as she peered over the edge of the seat. "I'll share with you."

Drew passed the matchbox over to her. "You don't have to."

She accepted it with blinking eyes. "You sure? I rolled it myself."

An amused laugh trickled out his mouth. "That's impressive but I'm sure…for now."

"Then I'll save it for later….for now," she said.

He was familiar with dope. On the fauna level—the academy grew its own for study and research but never for  _recreation_. He felt a little out of place next to her.

The girl appeared amused by his answer. "What else could I share with you?" She asked, slipping the joint into the matchbox for later. A perfect fit.

It's a strange question to him but he doesn't fight against it. Not when she peered into him like that. "—It's up to you."

She slapped her hands on the back of the seat with emphasis.

"My name—" She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I didn't share my name with you!"

Drew blinked.

"May," she told him, wiping a strand of hair from her face. "My name is May."

"…Like the month," he stated the fact, immediately regretting how awkward it sounded coming out of his mouth. He didn't really have the appropriate words to say.

 _Saying it was a pretty name would have sufficed_ , he scolded himself.

She smiled. "You expected something more exciting?"

"I figured you would be another Moonbeam or Sundance."

May pursed her lips. "Sorry to disappoint you, Little Match Boy."

"Little Match Boy?"

She gave him a knowing look. "You didn't share your name so what else am I going to call you."

Drew hesitated, avoiding direct eye contact with May. "Call me Drew."

She tapped her finger against her chin, smiling in approval. "Drew, huh? How short and simple."

He offered an awkward smile. "I guess it is."

"Are you on your way home, Drew?" May asked him, her voice soft.

"Yeah towards Nob Hill," he replied, forgetting to count how many stops he had before he was near his neighborhood. The jade-eyed boy looked out the window as the streetlights and nightwalkers passed in a flash. It looked like he had a couple more blocks.

Drew wondered what she was doing out here if she was heading towards home at all. If her flowy skirt kept her warm enough to deal with Northern California's chilly summer night winds. "What about you?" Drew asked, half-concerned and half-curious. "Are you heading home?"

"Home is with me," she told him earnestly with her hand on her chest. "I take it wherever I go. But tonight, I'm staying in Haight-Ashbury."

"Isn't it dangerous for you to be alone?"

"I'm not alone," she answered. "You're here with me right now."

Drew did not quite understand what she was saying but he felt that she truly meant every word. The soft doe-eyed look in her eyes was something close to naivety, or something far more fearful. She knew she was so bright that she was untouchable by any force the night had to offer. There was an air of bravery about her.

"We don't know each other."

May giggled like it was the most ridiculous thing he has ever said.

"Sure, we do," she admitted. "I'm May and you're Drew. What else is there to know?"

Drew wrapped her words around his head, feeling unsure if she was just messing with him. Or if there was any other reason why she was alone. If there was a bed for her waiting in Haight-Ashbury.

"I don't know—maybe like where you're from or if you're even from around here. Things can get dangerous, you know."

She huffed, pushing the wild brown tresses out of her golden face. "I'm from Southern California if you must know," she told him, lips pouted and pink. "Pasadena. Caught a ride on some kid's van and journeyed northbound. My family didn't believe me when I told them I was going away from the summer with only my babysitting money."

She was also from California; a child of suburbia, who joined the journey of those following the path of communal sweetness and tribal intimacy. Of accepting strangers and listening to stories, while he walked alongside the crowd, Drew didn't understand that want for vulnerability. To trust and to be trusted. His view of the universe didn't seem to match hers. He felt jaded compared to members of the peace movement.

Yet he understood. The want to be accepted, to be able to breathe fresh air without the smell of hot oil boiling from the McDonalds down the street—to experiment with life. His father would collapse from shock if Drew did what May was doing. Her act of personal revolution—it was sort of admirable. The girl was brave enough to paint the cosmos on her face while he always looked down on the ground, not wanting to experience the fear of the unknown every time he looked up at the sky.

"Are  _you_  from around here?"

Imagining the chaos and laughter of his old home and his mother, Drew's jade eyes softened. "…Chinatown. I go to USF and I live in Nob Hill but I'm from Chinatown."

She practically jumped out of her seat in excitement. "That's so beautiful. I've been wanting to go."

He didn't expect such a warm response. "You've been wanting to go to Chinatown?"

"There are some Chinese markets back home but I never been to a hub like that before. Will you show me around there? And find some treats."

"—What?"

She reached over the seat, grasped his hands in hers and looked him in the eye. "Yes, yes. Stay with me at the den tonight and tomorrow we can go to Chinatown."

For a moment, with their hands intertwined, Drew understood why Bob Dylan cried and cried on about women with clear eyes that could see through you, making a man feel instantly exposed. Vulnerable, Drew looked at her with fascination. "With me?"

"Yes, with you," May told him. "We're not strangers."

May's actual words were difficult to believe but her expression, the truth laced around her tongue, was enough for him to understand she meant what she said.

The streetcar sign flickered and came to a full stop.

They were at Haight—Ashbury.

From the window, even despite the darkness, Drew could see there were no white walls around the run-down district. Only psychedelic colors and patterned fabrics of the night owl crowd roaming the sidewalks. Half dope fiends and a half living out their LSD—fueled adventures. Vans and tents surrounding them.

Drew could hear the faint sound of  _Let's Spend the Night Together_  by The Rolling Stones playing. May took a stand, shaking the matchbox in one hand as she offered her other one to Drew. Her wrist covered in woven bracelets and kiss marks.

Lips pulled into a knowing but accepting smile, patiently waiting for him to accept her.

Drew wasn't sure if he should just stay on the streetcar and hide away before those walls he waited or accept the hand of a strange, beautiful enigma. He was sure about one thing.

That no one has ever looked at him like that before.

For the second time, he looked up at her from his cold seat. And for the first time, he stood up and towered over her, looking down into those deep pools. Sucking in a breath, he gives her his hand. With a flutter of her lashes, wrinkle of her nose—she whisked him off the streetcar and into the unknown. His dirty brown blood pumped warm and hot and as red as the streetcar that left them behind.

White turns to a rainbow, and in the morning, he will order her a red bean pastry in Mandarin. She will tell him about her journey away from home (how she missed her mama and papa and baby brother) and all her dreams for the Summer of Love. He will tell her about the future of the earth as she cries over the war and the peace.

Tonight, he will throw his brown blazer to the side, roll up his sleeves as he lays on the ground of the den, surrounded by her and her tribe of bohemians. May's smoke will tickle the nape of his neck but he won't mind. He'll accept it. He will try to explain how durable succulents are and she will draw cartoon roses on his forearm with a red sharpie. He'll accept that too.

Nights and mornings pass as the summer days grow, as do the streetcars of his city, and he finally accepts it. On a Tuesday morning spent on Hippie Hill, with her head on his lap, he realizes that May was right that first night.

They were never strangers.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Author's Note:**

> please comment !!! contestshipping needs some fuel


End file.
